


call it true, true love

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian makes a wish upon a star and a young boy suddenly shows up at his apartment door, weaving a wonderful tale of a young sailor hopelessly enamored with a princess. It would seem he’s supposed to bring back the happy endings to a sleepy town cursed to forget. If only he could find one for himself as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it true, true love

On his twenty-eighth birthday, Killian Jones stands alone in his apartment with a half-empty bottle of rum and makes a wish on a bloody ridiculous blue star candle he’s found in his meticulously organized utensil drawer.

The solitary candle is a little morose for his tastes, but he supposes the tradition does have it’s merits. There is no downside to a red velvet cupcake and it’s been quite some time since he’s wished for something and meant it.

He wishes to not be alone - tired of having to sleep with the television on, tired of lingering in the small cafe on the corner of the street by his crappy apartment because it’s the only time he feels like he’s not invisible.

He thinks nothing of it when a knock sounds at his door just as the flame is extinguished, the smoke tickling at his nose and the rum burning at his throat. He’s never been a man to believe in magic, after all. Growing up in the system after being discovered on the side of the road as a teenager with no clue as to how you arrived there tends to strip away one’s innocence and belief in the good.

A young boy peers up at him from behind a leather bound book when he answers the door and he idly wonders if perhaps he’s lost - if he’s trying to find his way to the older woman upstairs whose apartment moonlights as a free library on weekend evenings.

(He doesn’t remember tonight is a Thursday, and it’s well past a reasonable hour for young boys to be wandering in apartment buildings alone.)  

“Are you Killian Jones?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve been looking for you for ages,” the boy smiles, thrusting the book into his arms. “You’re my mom’s true love, and you’re going to bring back the happy endings.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

-/-

The boy - Henry, his name is - weaves a wonderful tale of a kingdom in another realm. A royal family and a young sailor enamored with the princess. There had been a curse, a sacrifice made in vain, and an Evil Queen’s terrible anger.

Now, apparently, this whole kingdom resides in a sleepy town in Maine - cursed to forget their true identities.

“You were supposed to be a part of the curse,” Henry bounces with enthusiasm in one of the mismatched chairs that sits around Killian’s table. Why he bothers to have more than one is a mystery. “But you put yourself in front of the princess when the Evil Queen lashed out with her magic and she - the princess, I mean - she put you in the wardrobe she was meant for and, and - “

“Where are your parents, lad?”

Henry visibly deflates. “My mom is in Storybrooke,” a morose grumble, his feet knocking against the base of the chair.

“And does your mother know that you are in Boston?”

Henry shakes his head.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and eyes the bottle of rum where it’s sitting on the counter. It’s looking like a road trip is in his near future, and despite his very real desire to drain the amber liquid, it doesn’t look like it’s an option. “Don’t suppose she’d be willing to drive down and pick her son up, aye?”

“She can’t leave the town line. It’s part of the curse.”

“Of course it is.”

-/-

Henry grins when he sees the jet black camaro parked along the curb.

“Does your car have a name?”

Not for the first time this evening, Killian feels as if he’s missing a part of the conversation. “I’m sorry?”

“You know, like a ship. Does it have a name?”

“Ah, because I’m a sailor,” he helps Henry into the car, noticing how the young boy’s fingers are white-knuckled around the edges of the book. “I hate to disappoint you, lad. But no. My car doesn’t have a name.”

Henry continues to grin brightly at him from the passenger’s seat and Killian finds himself mirroring the smile despite his best intentions to be irritated. Irritated that he has to drive a young child he doesn’t know hours back up the coast to a mystery town. This could be an elaborate kidnap plan, for all he knows. Perhaps a particularly involved murder plot.

And yet -

“That’s okay,” Henry encourages. “It doesn’t need to have a name.”

And yet.

-/-

“How do you know I’m the man you’re looking for?”

Henry fidgets in the seat, opening and closing the glove compartment several times in quick succession until Killian leans over and holds it shut. Henry looks up at him through his eyelashes and grins sheepishly.

“Your name is Killian Jones, just like my book says. Plus, you were found on the side of the road in the middle of Maine with a gash down your side and - “

“Wait, how is it you know that?”

He was found on the side of a road, covered in his own blood with a six inch welt carved into the skin of his abdomen, not a single memory as to how he got there. Nothing, in fact, besides a compass in his pocket engraved with a date and the name _Killian Jones_. Child services had been particularly flummoxed with his sudden appearance - and when no one had claimed him, he was placed into the foster care system.

Henry shrugs. “Mom’s a Sheriff.”

Delightful. So he’s harboring the runaway child of law enforcement. “And your father?”

Henry turns his head to look out the window. “He’s gone. He left my mom when I was small.”

Killian knows a thing or two about being left behind. He tightens his hands on the wheel and clenches his jaw, fixing his eyes ahead.

It’s no wonder this boy is desperate to believe in fairy tales and true love.

-/-

“Your mother isn’t going to shoot me, is she?”

“No,” Henry’s busy looking through the large, leather bound story book - a beautiful picture of an ornate ship spread across two pages. Henry’s fingers trace against it, and Killian can tell this is a well-studied page. Henry blinks up at Killian after a moment of silent contemplation. “Well, probably not.”

“Probably not.”

“Mom can be a bit, um, prickly sometimes. She’s pretty protective over the people she loves,” Henry turns back to his book. “It’s how you ended up here.”

“How’s that?”

“You threw yourself in front of her when the Evil Queen’s guards attacked and you were hurt. She didn’t want you carried away in the curse so she put you in the magical cupboard she was meant for.”

“Magical cupboard,” Killian murmurs beneath his breath, eyebrows furrowing. No one’s ever loved him enough to keep him longer than two months, let alone sacrifice their only chance at escape for him. A magical tale, indeed. “And what about you, young man? How is it that you’re able to leave the town lines but no one else is?”

“I was born in this world,” he supplies. “I think there was a hiccup in the curse that allowed my dad to pass over in town. Or something weird happened. Because people were aging and now they’re not, the town clock stopped and David has had the same gray hairs since I was like, six - “ he’s picking up speed now, his words blending together in one excited rush. “ - and mom can’t even remember how long she’s lived in Storybrooke and I ask her questions all the time and she says she doesn’t answer them because she doesn’t want to encourage me, but I know - “

“Relax,” Killian interrupts. “Remember to breathe. You’re going to wind yourself.”

Henry falls silent, snapping his book closed and turning in his seat. “Does this mean you believe me?”

Killian sighs. “Let’s just get you home, yeah?”

-/-

He doesn’t.

Believe, that is.

-/-

He begins to worry about his lack of a plan when they cross over into Storybrooke, unsure what the Sheriff might think of a strange man pulling up in strange car with her son in tow.

Henry has no such reservations. He practically jumps up and down in his seat and Killian has to remind him at least three times as they navigate their way down winding roads through a slightly ominous forest to keep his seat belt _on, thank you kindly_.

There’s nothing special about the quaint town beyond the abandoned streets and lack of life at such a late hour. After years of living in the bustling center of Boston, it’s a bit odd without the neon lights and drunken crowds stumbling home.

There’s certainly nothing overtly magical.

“Take a right and then two lefts,” Henry orders, still vibrating with anticipation. “We’re the house with the big front porch.”

Henry has a tendency to understate, Killian thinks idly, as they pull up to a grand house that easily dwarfs the neighbors on both sides. It’s a victorian style home, reminding him a bit of a castle.

Fitting, he supposes.

The front door of the house opens before he can do as much as slip out of the driver’s seat, a woman with striking blonde hair and the devil in her eyes skipping the bottom step of the front porch in her haste as she strides towards them.

“Who the hell are you?” she barks, eyes darting between Henry and himself and back again. Her hands cup Henry’s face before smoothing over his shoulders only to return to dragging her thumbs over his cheeks.

Henry’s mother, he assumes.

“Ah, I’m - “

“Killian Jones, mom!” Henry holds his book aloft between them. “I found Killian! I found your true love!”

Her eyes widen as she breathes in deep through her nose, her gaze flitting up to hold his. He shrugs because while he’s not so sure about the true love bit, his name certainly is true.

“Hello?”

Her face crumbles. “Oh, Henry.”

-/-

She pours them both a stiff drink as he sits in their family room, Henry having retired to bed after a lengthy and whispered admonishment from his mother in the kitchen. An admonishment that apparently left something to be desired, as Henry doesn’t hesitate to grin at him on his trek up the stairs.

“Henry, uh - “ she sips carefully at her rum, leaning back in the arm chair with a huff. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head in a ponytail and he wonders how many times she tangled her fingers in it as she worried after her son. “He has an active imagination.”

“I got that,” Killian chuckles. “Quite the spirit for adventure, as well.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You sure you didn’t lure my kid into some weirdo den of sin by posing as the guy he’s been searching for? My - “

“ - true love?” He smiles gently at her. He likes this lass, her fiery spirit and her obvious love for her boy. It warms his heart to see the young lad has someone in his life who cares so passionately. He had been worried on their long drive that perhaps his home life wasn’t ideal and that’s what sent him running after a fairy tale. But their cozy abode with the hand drawn artwork and abandoned crafts scattered over every flat surface - the various pictures of mother and son littered over the mantle - gives no indication of diabolical deeds.

He should know what to look for, after all.

She rolls her eyes, smile caught under her bottom lip before meeting his gaze.

“My name is Emma.”

As far as fated true love goes, he could do worse.

-/-

It’s been a strange birthday.

-/-

“I’m sorry if he’s caused you any trouble.”

“Not to worry,” he drags his thumb back and forth along the glass. “I was happy to drive him, and he seemed happy to talk. If I was any help at all in easing his loneliness, then - “

Her head snaps up. “Lonely? He told you he was lonely?”

“Not in as many words, no,” suddenly unsure, he averts his gaze to the carpet, scratching behind his ear. “But he did mention that his father left you both.”

“Yeah, he did,” she blinks at him, features soft. “He told you that?”

-/-

He takes his leave as soon as he finishes his glass of rum, a yawn wracking Emma’s shoulders as she does her best to suppress it. It shivers deliciously over her shoulders, toes curling into the carpet, and it’s best he leave before he lets his mind wander further.

He’ll stay in town tonight. They passed a quaint looking bed and breakfast on the main street as Henry directed him towards his home and he figures it’s the best he can do under such short notice. The drive back to Boston seems particularly arduous at this hour, and he only hopes the owner is awake to take his call.

“Hey, Killian?”

He turns on his heel, hands deep in his pockets. The stars are particularly bright outside of the city, and he imagines a bit of starlight catches in her hair as she steps out onto the porch in her socks. He huffs a laugh through his nose at the thought. The story book and the magical tales it weaves seem to be going to his head.

“Yes, love?”

She blinks at the casual endearment and his smile grows.

“Listen, my kid, he - “ she wraps her arms around herself and peers over her shoulder at the window glowing with soft light at the top of the house, a flutter in the curtains evidence enough that they’re being watched. Killian chuckles while Emma rolls her eyes. “His stories might be pretend but I’m pretty sure he would murder me if we sent you off without breakfast.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah, at Granny’s. Meet us there tomorrow morning? Ten?” She smiles and he might be onto something about that starlight. “I’ll buy you pancakes.”

“I’m more of a omelette man myself.”

She snorts on her way back into the house, ponytail swinging over her shoulder. “That works, too.”

He’s still smiling as he gets back into the camaro, engine roaring to life beneath his hands.

-/-

The bed and breakfast does in fact have a room open, the wrought iron key intricate and heavy in the palm of his hand. There’s a view of the clock tower that sits in the center of town from his window and he stares at it as he shrugs off his coat, tilting his head to the side as the minute hand twitches forward suddenly.

Odd that the clock tower shows the wrong time.

He’ll have to ask Henry about that in the morning. He’s sure the boy’s explanation will make him smile.


End file.
